The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(47)
She was walking to the elevator bank when she saw Roger Richardson striding across the foyer in a drenched fawn double-breasted mackintosh. She waved to him. He smiled, walked over to her. They both instinctively stepped aside, away from the crowd, chatting about the appalling weather as they walked toward the glass wall that looked out over First Avenue.
They stopped there. Yael waited as the CNN correspondent took off his round, tortoiseshell spectacles and wiped the rain off. “I don’t have any more, Yael,” Richardson said. “There was supposedly a deal. But who, what, when, where, why, I’m still working on it. You heard everything I know.”
Yael nodded, slowly. “Of course. Look, I know you cannot reveal your source. But is there … someone I could I ask for more information?”
Richardson smiled, put his now clean spectacles back on. “Not much happens here without Fareed knowing about it.”
*
Najwa stared at Sami’s printout. Yael Azoulay was clearly recognizable, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. In a white T-shirt and loose blue cotton trousers, she knelt down next to an Arab boy in a large open area. Warning signs nearby were written in Hebrew and Arabic. The boy looked to be in his early teens. He wore badly fitting jeans, a T-shirt, and over that a khaki vest with six front pockets. Each was filled with light brown blocks, from which a series of linked wires extended.
She said, “Talk me through it, again. When did you get this?”
“At eight thirty last night. It was from ‘[email protected].’ I have a friend who works at Google, so I checked and it’s fake. They have no record of any such account or e-mail address.”
“So we are probably dealing with a government intelligence service.”
Sami nodded. “Considering where the photo was taken, I don’t think we need to look very far.”
“I agree.” Najwa looked down at the printout again. “She looks much younger. Very determined. But kind of satisfied as well.”
“She should do. She did a good job. The bomb was defused.”
“How do you know about this?”
“I remember the incident. It was fourteen years ago. We were already here, but all our relatives in Gaza were talking about it. There was some media coverage in the US as well, although nothing mentioned Yael.”
“How old was he?”
“Fourteen. He was mentally handicapped. Islamic Jihad got hold of him. They kidnapped him, set him up.”
“OK, so we have some nice background for a feature. ‘The secret past of the SG’s negotiator.’ How she talked down a suicide bomber and saved dozens of lives.” She paused, her brow furrowed. “But why is someone sending you this?”
“I’ll get to that. Actually, it’s not such a heartwarming story. The problem is what happened next. The boy disappeared. The Israelis took him. They had a couple of minutes together and then he was taken away. His mother was hysterical. She never saw him again.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Najwa.
Sami looked away and shook his head, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. “Because he was my cousin.”
*
Twenty minutes later, once again composed and professional, Sami escorted Najwa into the New York Times’ new United Nations bureau. The old office had been a musty, cramped cell, barely ten feet by ten, with cables sagging from the roof, leaking ceiling tiles, and a cracked window that overlooked an airshaft. Sami’s rickety desk was always piled high with papers next to a heavy, old-fashioned computer monitor that took up most of the space. There was only one chair, and usually Najwa needed to clear away various half-eaten donuts, cookies, and sandwich crusts before she could find a place to sit on Sami’s desk.
The new United Nations bureau of the New York Times appeared to have been transplanted directly from an office furniture showroom. It was pristine, clean, and light. A pair of light gray wooden desks stood in the center of a room at least four times the size of the old office, its large windows overlooking First Avenue. Two LED flat-screen monitors stood back-to-back on top of the desks, cables all but invisible, Apple brushed-aluminum keyboards in front of them. One wall was lined with graphite-colored metal filing cabinets that matched the two $1,000 Mirra office chairs in front of each desk. Najwa knew they cost $1,000 as she had just ordered six for her bureau. Two flat-screen televisions were attached to the wall, one showing BBC World News and the other, she was glad to see, tuned to Al-Jazeera America. A top-of-the-line Nespresso machine stood on top of one of the cabinets. There was even a bowl of fresh fruit.
But the most noticeable addition was the young woman sitting in front of her computer screen. She carried on typing as Sami and Najwa walked in. “Hi. I have some more on Frank Akerman,” she said, without looking up, “he was … hold on a second … something at the Dutch ministry of … I’ve got it …” She closed her document and turned around in her chair to see Sami accompanied by Najwa. “Oh,” she said, startled for a moment. She glanced at Sami, as if waiting for instructions.
“Hold that for a moment. Collette, this is Najwa al-Sameera.”
Collette Moreau stood up and extended a graceful, well-manicured hand. “What a pleasure to meet you in person,” she said, her smile revealing two rows of even white teeth and a dimple on the right side of her mouth.
“Thanks. And welcome aboard. When did you start?” asked Najwa. Collette’s grip was warm, dry, and just firm enough to be assertive without being aggressive.